Red and Purple
by MOFOSTAN
Summary: Pete, the Red Goth of South Park High, had lived his life away from the conformists, sneering at them and judging them from afar. It wasn't until one day when he was driving home and saw Wendy Testaburger submerging herself in Stark Pond's water in an attempt of suicide that he began to rethink differently about everything he knew and thought he was. Romance/angst/tragedy/gore/sex.


I never paid too much attention to the conformists littering about in school. I didn't know their names and I didn't care for it. I knew a selected few, either the ones most gossiped about or the ones who related to us once or twice for some senseless adventure. Those most gossiped about were like reoccurring songs in the radio you couldn't escape no matter what channel you clicked to. Bebe Stevens was a particularly annoying one. I would be in class and suddenly a group of people or a clutter of prissy Barbies would gather to talk about the latest scandal she had been involved in or what jock-faced prick she sprawled open her legs for. Attention-hungry slut. Eric Cartman was another one. Fucking psycho bitch. Everything that tended to spew out of his mouth was entirely backward and asinine. The fat fuck was the cause of most of the distraught in the town. Then there was Stan Marsh. The presumed Raven. He was tolerable at most. Whenever something broke his shitty rose-colored glasses, he came whining to us. He never turned Goth again after elementary, but he would linger around us in the back of the school during lunch break and mooch off a cigarette, whining about some bitch named Wendy or his alcoholic father. I never really understood how some Taylor Swift retard could get his britches all up in a bunch. They just weren't as deep as we were, I guessed. God, I was an idiot. No one was as "deep" and "knowing" as we were. What does that even fucking mean? She knew.

The first time I actually saw her, Wendy Testaburger, I was working my shift at the local diner, the one where I would drink coffee with my "deep" and "knowing" friends. She walked in quietly with plum-colored ear phones, her eyes not really in the moment and her head was in a haze somewhere far away. I didn't even know it was her. I had a very vague memory of her, small and punching Eric Cartman in the face; but at the moment I just thought it was some random girl. She went up to Diana, the hostess who showed the people to their tables, and simply handed her something. Diana smiled politely and took her to a table in the back. There was no welcome introduction for her or no words exchanged. I was swiping tables when Diana approached me seconds later.

"Table 16 needs assistance." She said as she walked back to her post.

I flipped my hair before slinging the cloth over my shoulder and walking towards her table.

"Good afternoon, my name is Pete. Are you ready to order?" I began in a nonchalant tone. It really was my first week working here. I hated introducing myself in such a conformist manner, but it put money in my wallet and that was good enough to muddle through.

She looked up at me with those large eyes of her. Usually when people saw me, they either chuckled, inched away, or sneered at me. I had the red dye in my hair, my bangs set forward covering my face like always. Eyeliner marked my eyes and it really didn't help that the uniform was black. Still, she didn't have any reaction. Now that I think about it, the thing I liked most about her was her directness. She always had a knack for confronting everything face forward.

"You're new." She stated simply. She crossed her legs and pulled a strand of hair away from her face, looking back down at the menu. She had a floral print skirt reaching to her mid-thighs, purple stockings, and a purple stripped cinch waist blouse. Her hair was in a side braid and her plum-colored fingernails fiddled with her sunglasses, which were resting on the table in front of her.

"Are you going to order any time soon?" I asked, a bit annoyed at this point.

She let out a heavy sigh. Her eyes were sad and lonely as she continued to look down at the menu. "Do you ever feel like you're not really here at the moment?"

"Look miss, I just want your order. I have other tables to attend to." I grunted.

"Yeah…" She simply said sadly. "French toast sounds sweet. You guys should do that thing with the whipped cream and bacon strips."

"Is there anything else you'd like?" I asked, jotting down her order. Who orders breakfast at four in the afternoon? This isn't fucking IHOP.

She looked up at me once again. "Hey, Pete, do you have that strawberry milkshake on menu today or is that only for weekends?" Something about her saying my name pissed me off.

"It's only offered on weekends." I said while I gritted my teeth.

She bit her lip and looked back down at the menu. "Hmmm." She handed me the menu. "Chocolate milk and maybe a little bowl of cinnamon porridge."

I squinted my eyes as I took the menu. Seriously? It's four in the fucking afternoon and you want French toast with whipped cream? Then you fucking order fucking chocolate milk like a child and porridge like an old hag on Bingo night. Fucking weirdo. "Your order will be here shortly. If you need anything at all, just call out my name." I force a smile and continue to walk away. I come back in a minute to fill out a glass of water for her and hand her a straw.

Every once in a while I peek over to her table as I take orders and report them to the cook. She is either reading a book or looking at me with her head tilted as if she recognizes me. It's creeping me the fuck out. Fucking conformist bitch.

I take hold of her order and bring it to her table.

"Here you go. Enjoy." I say curtly.

"Hey wait." She calls out to me as I'm leaving. I turn back to her. "Aren't you part of that group Stanley talks to?"

"Stanley?" I look at her puzzled. "Oh, you mean Raven."

She grins and looks away, trying to hold back a laugh. "Raven…"

"Yeah. That kid is always bitchin' about somebody, mooching of cigarettes. Why, you know him?"

She looks at me in astonishment. "I knew he drank, but he smokes?" She then does that nose-pinching thing Raven always does.

It then occurred to me. "Are you Wendy?" I ask.

She looked to me in curiosity. "He's mentioned me?"

"All he ever does is complain about you." I immediately regretted letting that slip out.

She didn't seem surprised or enraged. She simply shrugged and took a sip of her chocolate milk.

That was all I said to her that day, excluding "here's your bill" and "have a nice day." She simply walked out of there, not really acknowledging me and me not really acknowledging her.

Surely enough the next day Raven came to us behind the school at lunch break. He came to us not wanting to talk with his eyes red and simply sat down next to Henrietta. She took out her cigarette pack as a habit and he took one and started to smoke. He just stared down at the snow in front of him and didn't say anything. We didn't say anything as well, and we all just sat or leaned to the wall of the school and took a smoke every once in a while. The bell rang for us to go back and we handed him our cologne and a breath mint as he went away. There were no words exchanged as he left. Later that day I was in my Calculus class when the teacher left to go to the bathroom. I was dicking around, not doing anything and simply sitting like an asshole in the back of the class. A cluster of conformists gathered in the classroom, ready to spout out their next gossip routine and binge down on the misery and discomfort of others in a less fortunate situation than theirs, simply to elevate their self-esteem. Fucking pricks. The conformists were talking about Raven, or rather Stan, and his break up with Wendy. I don't like to listen to them, but they are so loud that the very moment I heard that, I froze still in my seat. I remember that this black haze of panic and guilt seeped into me. Did I do that? I told her he was complaining about her constantly. Was that the catalyst or the last straw? Well shit.

A week later it didn't even matter. Stan was back on his feet, dating some other red-headed chick. A week after I heard that, he was back to complaining to us about this girl named Rebecca.

It wasn't until almost a month after I first talked to Wendy when I was driving by Stark's Pond, it's a short cut from Henrietta's house to mine, when I saw her belly-deep in water. She kept walking towards the water, her body being swallowed willingly. It wasn't until I saw her head completely disappear inside the murky waters until I realized that she wasn't going to come back. I frantically parked on the side of the road and rushed out of the car, nearly tripping over the seatbelt that was hard to budge out of. I ran towards the water and plunged myself inside, looking inside the waters until I saw a wave of black hair near the bottom of the pond almost right below me. I swam down to her and locked my arms under her armpits, pulling her above the water. She was kicking and pushing me away but I held my grip on her and managed to sloppily throw her to the snow. She was spluttering and choking, grasping on the snow as her lungs were probably burning. I was trembling from the cold water and cursing under my breath. I wiped my hand on my cheek and saw a black smudge taint my fist, probably from the eyeliner.

"You 'kay?" I asked, my voice hoarse and breathless.

She was lying face down on the snow, her hair covering her entire face, with a fistful of snow in her small hands. Her clothes were soaked, heavy, and dripping. She was wearing a short dress, in the winter of all times. It was a short, summer, casual dress – plum-colored of course. Apparently purple was her favorite color. She had on purple wedged high heels and a large yellow bow clipped to her dripping hair. She had on yellow stockings. I looked around and there were no jackets to be seen. She apparently was crazy enough to step into the winter air, let alone the freezing pond, in a summer get up. I took off my jacket and placed it around her; despite it being soaked, it was at least better than nothing. She growled angrily as she pushed me away, ripping the jacket off of her.

"Fucking asshole!" She shrieked, in the brink of sobbing.

"I fucking saved your suicidal ass!" I screamed back, chucking my jacket to her face.

She threw it to the ground and glared at me. She fell on her back as she was sitting, and started to laugh at me almost hysterically. "You're face." She cried. "You look like a raccoon."

I was standing above her confused. I then remembered the eyeliner and let out a chuckle as well, before realizing this was insane. I grew enraged before reaching down to take my jacket and walked towards my car. "Fucking fine! Go fucking kill yourself, bitch." I growled.

I reached my car and opened my car door before peeking up to see her going towards the lake again. I muttered, "Shit," under my breath and ran towards her once again. I grabbed her by the arm and threw her backwards. She fell to the snow on her ass. "What the fuck is wrong with you!?"

"Just fucking leave me alone!" She cried, desperate and frustrated.

"No!" I retorted. I forced her to get up and she tried to slap me, but I grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm, letting her gasp in slight pain. "Don't." I simply said darkly and she glared at me like a set of daggers piercing at me from her eyes. Then she dared to spit on my face. I growled in annoyance and grabbed her waist. "That's it!" I shouted before I slung her over my shoulder, holding her in place and walking to my car.

She was screaming obscenities at me and punching my back. She kicked me in the gut and I had to pause to regain composure. I then threw her in the backseat of my car without caring how she landed and closed the car door, locking the doors in the car.

"You're fucking kidnapping me, creep!" She yelled, kicking my seat hard with her fucking heels.

"HEY!" I howled. "THIS IS MY FUCKING CAR!"

She glared at me as she kicked it again.

I let out a bitter laugh. "This fucking bitch," I said out loud before driving off to my house.

She didn't say anything to me as she continued to glare at me through the rearview mirror. I parked in front of my apartment complex and sighed.

"I got a washer and dryer." I began. "Put your fucking clothes in."

"I'm not going in there." She barked.

"And why the fuck not, you prissy snot-nosed bitch?"

"You might rape me." She stated simply, crossing her arms.

I just stared at her incredulously. "I've had better." I finally said.

She seemed offended. "What do you mean by that!?" She continued to glare at me. "I'm pretty attractive, aren't I?"

It was true. She was extremely attractive in the physical sense, but her arrogance and bitchiness completely took away any and all attraction I could ever feel for a wretched, conformist shrewd like her. "What the fuck do you want from me!?" I yelled.

"Nothing!" She screamed and I slammed the steering wheel of my car in frustration. "I thought hitting the car was forbidden." I just turned to give her a dirty glare.

We simply sat in my car, the heater on, trying to calm down. After about twenty minutes, I spoke. "What makes a girl like you want to die?"

She said nothing.

"Was it that whole Stan thing?"

She scoffed. "No man will ever bring me that low." She said almost bitterly.

I turned to her, to see her eyes red and her lips trembling. I was about to say something along the lines of, "What do you know about pain?" but it didn't seem appropriate. The look on her face was one of bitter defeat. Her lips seemed to tremble, but not out of fear or anguish. It seemed to tremble out of rage that was building from within her. It seemed her pride was the one keeping her from talking about it. It was as if it was something shameful for her to admit, or rather as if it would bring her to shame if she accepted it as something worth talking about. That observation gave me a clearer compilation of her personality. So she was this type of person: a prideful fool. "Wendy, right?" She nodded. "Just dry your clothes." I was surprised at the tenderness of my voice.

Tears spilled out of her eyes but she quickly dried them, as if she didn't want me to see she was human, and got out of the car. She leaned against it and waited as I got out. I led her to the second floor and opened the door.

"Are your parents' home?" She asked quietly.

"I live alone." I answered.

She nodded and reluctantly went inside. She stood awkwardly in the middle of my crappy living room. There were piles of clothes and old cartons of City Wok noodles and fried rice littered about in odd places. Beer bottles were tossed here and there and the dust gathered and collected on the surfaces of my furniture. I felt like I was bringing a princess to the slumps of her kingdom; like her petite and expensive shoes shouldn't come in contact with the grimy floor of my apartment. "I'll go find something for you to wear." I turned to her and looked at her getup. "Why the fuck are you wearing _that_ anyways?"

"I thought I'd like to die looking my best." She answered almost too casually, looking distracted as she peered off to the corner of the room. Her voice was low and emotionless and I saw her hands and legs tremble from the cold. I hated whiny little brats who simply thought a word mentioning their mommy or daddy would send them comfort and satisfy their material needs and their safety. These type of people always complained for everything, feeling as if they had deserved the best and were bound to inform every one of their superiority. She didn't seem like that. She acted like the prideful fool, not complaining of the cold, despite it obviously eating at her. She didn't mention the state of the house or how it smelled like alcohol, marijuana, and sex. She simply took it and swallowed it in, acting as if it were nothing below her, but simply a fact of life that she must deal with.

I sighed and went inside my room. I found a large black sweater with a hood and a long, ankle-length, black skirt. I brought them to her.

"Why do you have a skirt?" She asked.

"It belonged to my ex. She never came to pick it up and I never bother to clean my room."

"What's the _Sisters of Mercy_?" She was referring to the words etched in the black sweater.

"It's a band."

"Ah." She said as she took the clothes. She started to walk to the small hallway in front of her and turned back to me. "Where's the bathroom?"

"To your left." I answered and she entered. She came out twenty minutes later, barefoot and wearing my oversized sweatshirt and my ex's black skirt. Her slender hands held a red towel from my bathroom that she used to dry her damp, black hair that folded down her bare shoulder. That shoulder had my oversized sweater slipping down. She pulled it up almost immediately.

"I hope you don't mind." She said, referring to the towel around her neck, as she handed me her wet clothes.

I sighed and took her clothes, walking towards the bathroom. "Help yourself."

I threw the clothes in the washer and turned it on, and then went inside my room to change. I wore a black T-shirt with black jeans and came out to the living room to see where she went. She was in the kitchen, rummaging through my fridge.

"What are you doing?"

"You don't have anything to eat." She said.

"I have beer."

"You don't expect this to fill your stomach, do you?" She said, taking a beer and opening it. She looked at it curiously and took a deep breathe. Then she gulped a good portion of it and walked passed me.

I rolled my eyes. "I don't usually eat here. I go to eat at my friend's or out or some shit."

"Do you wanna go eat somewhere, then?" She asked. "I'm starving."

"You actually don't mind being seen with me?" I asked, raising my brow.

She shrugged. "Are all you Goths so insecure?" She then walked to the door and opened it. She stopped and looked at me. "Did your ex happen to leave any shoes? Mines are wet."

I looked back to my room. "No, but my friend Henrietta might have." I walked inside and surely enough I find a plethora of women's shoes. She likes to leave her shoes in all of our houses, particularly mine because I don't live with parents. She does this because her mother has taken the habit of throwing out her old shoes and buying girly, bright colored conformist shoes for her.

I pick up some stiletto-heeled boots that should reach her knees. It was the warmest thing I could find. I walk to where she is and give it to her. She sits down and slips her feet inside, her nose scrunched up in disdain as she does so. Thankfully they fit.

"What? You don't like them?"

"Honestly, these heels are really high and there's snow outside." She explained and then looked up to me. "It's very difficult to walk in the snow with these types of shoes."

"Make do." I shrugged. I take her hand and help her up. I see her struggle to stand and she takes hold of my arms to keep herself balanced. Her hands are soft and she's close enough that I can smell shampoo and a sweet vanilla perfume coming from her. She backs away casually and walks outside the door. I follow behind.

We walk into an Apple Bee restaurant and order a table for two. I'm surprised she didn't want to go into the diner I work in. She seemed to be a regular. We sat down in a table next to the window and I avoided her direct gaze, gearing my attention towards the pinks, reds, and purples of the sky as the sun was setting. The waitress came to take our order. I ordered the Cajun Pasta and she ordered some sandwich. The food came about thirty minutes later while we sat awkwardly there, not saying much at all.

I peeked over to her and I saw her face rather flushed as she stared at me. She squinted at me as if she were trying to distinguish the shapes of my face and body.

"Are you drunk?" I asked her, leaning a bit towards her skeptically.

"I think so." She said as she continued to stare at me.

I widened my eyes in disbelief. "You barely had half of that beer."

"Uh-uh. I had about three before we left. You just didn't see me."

"Three?" I rarely partook in the act of smiling or laughing, but I found myself chuckling in bewildered amusement. "You mean it was the first time you ever drank?"

She giggled a bit stupidly. "Uh-huh."

"Yeah, you look kind of uptight." I found myself snickering.

"Yeah!" She pouted. "Well, you look… um… oh, whatever! But who's complaining?"

I felt a sudden disbelief at myself as I started to laugh almost uncontrollably. It even ventured into the state where I was losing my breath. What a drunken idiot.

"Wends?" A voice came from behind me and I cleared my throat to awkwardly gain my standard Goth persona. I looked back and saw a ginger looking kid with a green hat looking at us questioningly. He had on an orange basketball shirt and olive green jeans on. He apparently came with his family, because an older Jewish man with a Yamaka on his head smiled at all of us politely, waved at Wendy, and patted his son's back. He then sat down on the table to the far back with his overweight wife and beady-eyed son. His parents left him alone to talk to us for a while. I grunted slightly at the typical view of a family. The cheerful, go-lucky commonplace routine of a family life. A husband, wife, and two sons sitting around the table and smiling pretentiously at each other, the father asking how everyone's day went when he honestly couldn't give a damn. The kids answering while going back to their facebooks on their phones and their handheld video games. The wife doting over the children and the husband and smiling, not knowing a life better than she possesses. It makes me sick. I knew when that guy Wendy had seemed to know went back to sit down with his family, that would be how his "family outing" was spent, more or less.

The conformist looked down at me, genuinely confused and then looked back at her and her clothes. Wendy didn't seem to notice the discomfort and she got up to hug the conformist. "Kyle!" She laughed as she encircled her arms around him, still giggling.

Kyle awkwardly wrapped his arms around her and then backed away in shock. "Wends, are you drunk?" He whispered in an appalled fashion, obviously smelling the alcohol rolling off her breath.

"A bit. Not really that much, just kind of silly to be honest." She admitted and pinched her fingers in the air to emphasize 'a bit'.

Kyle's mouth was gaping as he stared at her. Apparently the very thought of Wendy being drunk was unimaginable. I felt a slight tinge of guilt, do to it being sort of my fault she was that way. The beer belonged to me to begin with. She extended her arm to my direction and said, "This is…" She looked confused at the floor for a few seconds and then turned to me. "Is it Pete or Peter?" Honestly I was surprised she remembered my name at all. The only time I told he was as I introduced myself at the diner a month ago.

"It's Pete." I said indifferently as I flipped my bangs back.

"Did you give her alcohol?" Kyle squinted almost intimidatingly at me.

I shrugged, maintaining my disinterested demeanor. "No. She stole it from my fridge. If the girl wants a drink, let her drink."

Kyle looked back at Wendy. Wendy looked a bit sheepish as he looked down at her clothes almost disapprovingly. "What are you doing?"

"Kyle, it was _one_ beer." She grumbled uncomfortably, obviously lying at how many drinks she consumed. "Don't make such a big deal out of it." She shifted her eyes in embarrassment. "How's your brother doing in school?"

Kyle folded his arms, still judgmental, and said, "Great. Top of the class." He glanced back to me. "Look, Wends. I don't know what's going on with you lately. You're acting distant and weird and I know you're trying to avoid Stan and all, but this is me here. The rest of your friends, me included, are here for you. Whatever is going on, you can count on us." He glanced back to me once again before turning back to her. "Don't get involved with people and activities that will endanger you. You're better than that." He glared at me before turning to go back to his family's table.

"Conformist prick." I muttered under my breath.

"Yeah, yeah. Write me a poem." Kyle retorted without turning back as he was leaving.

I wanted to sucker-punch that Jew nose, but Wendy gently touched my shoulder from where she stood. "Sorry about that." She sighed and sat back down in front of me. "He's just trying to be a good friend."

"Uh-huh." I voiced bitterly.

"It must suck." She said in a small voice.

I met her eyes questioningly. "What?"

"To be misjudged continuously."

I stared at her. She was looking at me with apologetic eyes and that look of despair she had back in the car.

"Why did you try to kill yourself?" I asked.

She sighed as if her lungs were burning. "I haven't told anyone yet. I don't want to." She stated simply.

"I'm paying for this meal. Your friend accused me of endangering you. You're wearing my clothes. You're wasting my water bill and my gas for my car – not to mention that your damn heels probably left a dent on my seat." I insisted. "Why did you try to kill yourself?"

I saw tears threaten to spill out of her eyes. "It's um…" she began. Her skin grew rather pale, almost . "Because…" I could tell that out of politeness and obligation that she attempted to tell me/

"It's fine." I snapped. Thank God the place was really loud. "Just eat your food."

I ignored her for the rest of the meal, indulging in my pasta and waiting for her to finish. I paid the bill and tipped the waitress five dollars. I stood and left the restaurant and heard her clicking heels follow after me. I didn't even glance at Kyle's table. Fuck that kid. She seemed fully sober now, the buzz only lasting shortly. She stepped inside the car and sat down next to me. I simply sat there, not turning the ignition on, my hands on the wheel. I could feel her eyes staring at me, waiting for me to move.

"You're kind of an inconsiderate bitch." I voice out.

"You're an arrogant douche." She retorted almost immediately.

I turned to glare at her. "Arrogant?"

"Yeah. You heard me." She hissed. "

"Ohh." I grinned bitterly. "I should've just let you drown."

"You should've!" She yelled.

"How the fuck do I know that once I drop you off, you won't try again?"

"I will!" She screamed, almost hysterically.

I pulled her in and then slammed her against the car door. She winced, but kept her glare at me. Tears spilled from her eyes.

"WHY DO YOU CARE SO MUCH IF I FUCKING DIE OR NOT!?" She screamed at me. "YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW ME! STOP TRYING TO ACT LIKE SOME GOD DAMN HERO!"

I felt myself freeze, not knowing what to say. Why did I give a flying fuck? She has nothing to do with me. Then again, she is a human being.

My hand was still holding her against the car door, but my grip slightly softened. "You couldn't just stand there and watch someone die, could you?"

The tension in her body softened as well. She looked away from me and pushed my hands away. "I understand." She said as she sighed, her voice calm and detached. "Look, I don't mean to be a bitch when I say this, but if I wouldn't tell my friends and family, what makes you think I'd tell a complete stranger?"

She had a point.

I relaxed in my seat and turned on the ignition of the car. I backed up from the parking space and drove away from Applebee's parking lot. "Where do you live?"

"The neighborhood after the market. Nine houses down to the left." She answered plainly.

"Do you want to pick up your clothes first?" I asked.

"I think I should go home. My mom must be worried. I didn't take my phone." She said.

"What about your clothes?"

"I'll give them to you at school tomorrow. You'll give me mine."

"Kay." I agreed. "I have time after fourth period. Meet me in the music room."

She sighed. "Uh-huh."

"Your mom wouldn't mind your clothes?"

She laughed sarcastically. I didn't press on the issue and I drove to her house in silence. She opened the car door and shut it behind her without a word. She didn't look back before going inside and I didn't check to see if she went inside safely. I just drove off.

* * *

**A/N: I know this is a crack pairing. I mean, how many Red Goth/Wendy fan fictions are there (I'm willing to place a bet that there are between 0-1)? Still, the concept occurred to me spontaneously and I thought I'd write an entire story based on them. It was all due to this song: Gravity by Sara Bareilles. Great song. Sad song.**

**I got a surprise up my sleeve about why Wendy wanted to commit suicide, and trust me there is nothing about Stan in the mix (just to make that clear). To be honest, I kind of like the idea of Wendy with grade-A assholes, ranging between psychotic (like Cartman) or apathetic (like Craig and Red Goth). Actually, I almost made this a Craig/Wendy fic (a very big otp of mine), but decided to change it to Red Goth at the last minute due to my itching to write about the whole "conformists are stupid, I'm a Goth and I am unique, blah blah" opinion that the show has established. **

**I'll be slipping in a song or two that I find fits with the chapter/story every Author's Note. **


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